Under Suspicion

Bookman shook his head. “No. I’m not. The remains we have are not conclusive, but the men went overboard in a place and a situation that doesn’t support survival. Not only was the drill mechanism and a large diesel motor right there, practically beneath them, but as I mentioned, there were sharks, too.”

Behind Zach, the groundskeeper pushed the cart that held Tristan’s casket. One wheel was rickety and it creaked with every inch of movement. He turned.

Sandy, who was standing next to Duff, started to turn around as well, but the priest kept his hand on her shoulder. With his eyes, he beckoned Zach.

“The Coast Guard has captured several of the sharks,” Dr. Bookman went on. “They’re sending me the stomach contents to see what additional remains I might be able to recover.”

The queasiness rose in the back of Zach’s throat again.

“Sorry about your friend,” Dr. Bookman said.

Zach thanked him. He stepped quickly over to Sandy’s side. He wanted to watch until the groundskeeper slammed the stone door and locked the bolt.

Actually, that wasn’t what he wanted to do. He wanted to run over to the casket and rip it open. He wanted to see with his own eyes just exactly what was inside, if it wasn’t his friend’s body. But of course, he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. Sandy was there and he’d rather die than let her know that her husband’s body was never recovered.

“Sandy,” Duff said, “wasn’t Zach one of Tristan’s best friends?”

She glanced at him, not fooled for a moment, but allowing him to distract her from the sight of her husband’s casket being pushed into the vault. “His best friend,” she corrected, smiling at Zach.

He smiled back at her, and his conscious brain picked up on what he’d been aware of subconsciously since he’d first seen her. Sandy had always been slender, but the black dress she wore was formfitting and hugged a small but obvious baby bump. Tristan’s widow was pregnant. His eyes burned and his heart felt broken into pieces. Tristan had a child.

Sandy’s hand moved to rest on her belly protectively, and Zach realized he was staring. He looked up to see her smiling sadly at him. He opened his mouth to apologize or console her or something, but she shook her head. “It’s okay, Zach,” she murmured. “I’m doing okay. I’m about three and a half months along,” she said, her voice quivering. “Tristan knew. He was sure it’s a boy.”

As he struggled for the right thing to say, he felt a presence behind him.

“Sandy,” a voice said. It was the woman. “We need to get back to the house.” She sounded exactly as he’d figured she would. She had a city accent. Maybe New Orleans, maybe another large metropolitan area. But one thing was for sure, it was certainly not a south Louisiana–bayou accent.

Turning, Zach met her gaze and saw for the first time that her eyes were blue. It didn’t really surprise him. He didn’t trust blue eyes.

Chapter Two

Her manner was no longer hostile, but it was decidedly chilly. Then she turned toward Sandy and within less than a heartbeat, her entire demeanor changed. A tenderness melted the ice in her eyes and her stiff shoulders relaxed. Zach shivered as the chill she’d aimed at him dissolved in the afternoon sun.

“You should lie down for at least a half hour while I put out the food and get ready for people to come by. Mrs. Pennebaker told me just now that she’d taken three more pies over and two buckets of chicken.” She took Sandy’s elbow and began to guide her away from Zach and Duff.

Sandy groaned. “How much do they think I can eat?” she said.

Zach was sure he’d heard a spark of amusement lighten her subdued tone for a second. Maybe she actually was all right. Or at least better than she looked, because she looked exhausted, crushed and on the verge of fainting, if he could tell anything by the paleness of her face.

“They know you’re going to need lots of food, not only for yourself and the baby. Don’t forget all the people who are going to be stopping by,” the woman said.

“I know that. And I don’t need to lie down. I’m fine.” As the woman led her away, Sandy turned back, reaching out to Zach. He took her hand.

“Come by, please? We— I haven’t seen you for such a long time. You’re not leaving right away, are you? And bring your bags. You’re staying with me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Zach saw the woman frown. That stopped the polite protest on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he nodded. “Thanks, Sandy. I’d be happy to.” He shot the woman a sidelong glance.

“Oh, Zach, this is Madeleine Tierney,” Sandy said, then turned to the woman. “I’m so sorry, Maddy. I forgot all about introducing you.”

Madeleine Tierney nodded at him without offering her hand.

“This is Zachary Winter. He’s Tristan’s oldest and dearest friend, practically since they were born.”

Zach nodded back at her. “I’ll see you at the house, Sandy,” he said.

As the two women walked away, he took a few seconds to study Madeleine Tierney. She had on a dark jacket and skirt that was a little loose. Her shoes were plain and black with a medium heel. Her clothes seemed designed to keep people from noticing her.

While she waited for Sandy to get into the passenger side of a rental car, she swept the dwindling crowd one more time. She spotted the two men she’d been watching earlier. Zach checked them out again, too. They were walking down Cemetery Road toward town. When they passed the last parked car, Zach narrowed his gaze.

“See those two guys, Duff?” he asked. “Oh, sorry, Father Michael.”

Duff waved his hand. “Don’t worry so much about what to call me. I’m fine with Duff, except in church,” he said. “What two guys?”

Zach nodded toward the men walking toward town.

Duff squinted at them for a few seconds. “Oh. Right. That’s Murray Cho and his son. Pat, I think is his name. Why?”

“Were they at the church service earlier?”

“I’m sure they were. I don’t remember seeing them, though.” He frowned at Zach. “What’s bothering you?”

“Just wondering how they knew Tristan.”

“From what I recall, when they first moved here, Tristan let them use his dock. They’re small-time fishermen.”

“Commercial?” Zach asked.

Duff nodded. “They bought the seafood-processing warehouse from Frank Beltaine. I’m not sure if they’ve gotten their commercial license yet, but they’re working on getting freezers installed. I understand they’re going to start selling to the locals soon.”

So the two men were part of the community. If they just got started, they probably didn’t have much money. Maybe they were walking because they didn’t own a car.

Zach thought about Madeleine Tierney, who had fed his suspicion of the two men. “So, who is this Madeleine Tierney? And why is she yanking Sandy around as if she was an untrained pup?”

“She’s not yanking Sandy around. She’s been renting a room at Sandy and Tristan’s for the past few weeks.” Duff used air quotes around the word renting. “Since Sandy’s been pregnant, Tristan was working more and more hours on the rig. He was spending two, three weeks offshore and sometimes only a week at home.”

“Aren’t there regulations that control how much they can work?”

Duff nodded. “Usually, sure. But I’ve heard the rig is shorthanded right now because of some virus going around, and the crews can work overtime if needed. Tristan was trying to save money so he could quit offshore and go to work as a veterinary assistant. Madeleine and Sandy struck up a friendship and Tristan thought it was a great idea for Madeleine to stay with her because he didn’t like her being there alone.”

“So who is she and where’s she from?” Zach asked.

Duff shook his head. “I understand that she’s an oil rig inspector who’s been—”

“A what?” Zach was stunned.

“An oil rig inspector. Her dad was an inspector until he retired. Seems like I kind of remember a kid going on inspections with her dad. But I never paid much attention to the oil rigs before the British Petroleum spill.”

Zach nodded. He understood. Bonne Chance was like many of the towns and villages along the Louisiana Gulf Coast between Mississippi and Texas. The townspeople were a mix of fishermen and oil rig workers, and the two sides had a kind of love/hate relationship with each other. The oil rigs attracted big fish, including sharks, but they were a strain on the delicate ecosystem of the sea. Plus, everyone was supersensitive since the BP oil spill, which nearly wiped out the entire fishing industry along the Gulf Coast.

Zach hated the rigs. His dad had worked the rigs until the day he apparently got sick of work and marriage and took off when Zach was around eight years old, leaving his mother and him behind. Now a rig had taken the life of his best friend. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t seen Tristan in thirteen years. The hole left in Zach’s heart hurt just as much as if they’d never been apart.

“Zach?” Duff said, drawing his attention back to the present. “I’ll be at Sandy’s in about twenty minutes, after I change clothes.”

Zach nodded. Duff headed toward a new Mini Cooper. Zach turned his attention back to Madeleine Tierney, who was still hovering solicitously beside Sandy. She was looking up the road after the two men. As she watched them, she fiddled with the cross-body strap of the leather purse she carried. Something familiar in the subtle gesture, combined with the way she checked the clasp on the purse, stopped him cold.

He’d seen that exact set of gestures before. His weapons-training class with the NSA had included two women with whom he’d worked every day for twelve weeks. He’d watched them tuck their weapon into a specially made handbag and retrieve it time and time again. They had developed the habit of subtly locking and releasing the clasp of the bag, just as Madeleine Tierney was doing.

There was a concealed weapon in that bag. He’d bet a month’s salary on it. He’d throw in another month’s salary if carrying a concealed weapon were standard practice for rig inspectors.

Who the hell was she and what was her relationship with Sandy and Tristan? Judging by the bag and her handling of it, plus the way she’d kept an eye out for anyone suspicious, his guess was that she was a federal agent. Duff said she’d been here more than a month. Tristan had died five days ago, so she wasn’t here because of his death.

Until he knew for certain who she was and why she’d gone to Tristan DuChaud’s funeral packing a weapon, he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. She could be the key that would unlock the truth about Tristan’s death. Even if that chance was one in a million, he couldn’t afford not to take it. He’d stick with her until he knew everything about her.

He waited until she and Sandy drove away before he headed for his car, planning to follow them out to Sandy’s house. But he stopped. No. There was one thing he needed to do first. He turned and looked at the grave site. Most of the people had gone. The casket was on a wheeled cart and the caretaker was just about to roll it into the open DuChaud vault.

Taking a deep breath, he walked over and asked the man if he could have a moment. The man stepped a few feet away. Zach bowed his head and put his hand on the cold metal of the casket. He knew it was empty, and yet it seemed appropriate to touch it as he said the only goodbye he might ever get to say to his oldest friend.

* * *

MADELEINE TIERNEY WAITED as the Cajun woman who had stayed at Sandy’s house during the funeral fussed at Sandy. She turned the coverlet back on the bed. “Now you get under that cover, you,” the gnarled little woman said. “And I’ll tuck you in.”

“I’m not sick, Marie Belle,” Sandy had snapped irritably, but she lay down and let the woman tuck the coverlet around her.

Maddy had gladly stepped aside and let Marie Belle handle Sandy. Maddy hadn’t had much luck convincing Sandy that she needed to rest for a while. On the other hand, even though Sandy argued, she listened to the little Cajun woman. And it was obvious by her pinched nostrils, pale face and sunken cheeks how exhausted she was. Her too-bright eyes were proof of the shattering grief that weighed her down, and the way her eyelids drooped was a definite indication that she needed a nap. She needed all the rest she could get, for the sake of the baby, if not for herself, Marie Belle told her. Meekly, Sandy agreed.

Meeting Marie Belle had given Maddy hope that she wouldn’t have to deal with all the food that neighbors, friends and family had brought over. But no such luck. The Cajun woman needed to get home in time to boil a chicken for dinner.

Maddy told her to take some food with her, but the woman had shaken her head. “This food for Miss Sandy, yeah. T’ain’t for me. You take care of that girl now. She needs rest.”

Now, left alone in the kitchen, with Sandy resting in the master bedroom at the end of the hall, Maddy stared at counters stacked with pies, both homemade and bought, casseroles, bread and crackers and soft drinks and fruit. She opened the refrigerator even though she already knew it was full to bursting. She had no idea what she was supposed to do with all the food. She just hoped it was already cooked, because cooking was not her superpower. Sandy had taught her the basics of making scrambled eggs, but her best dish was still Marie Callendar’s Fettuccini Alfredo with extra Parmesan cheese. The extra Parm was her special touch.

Cursing whoever had come up with the brilliant idea of sending food to mourners then showing up to eat it all, she checked the front door to be sure it was locked. She didn’t want people coming into the house through two different entrances.

As soon as Marie Belle left, Maddy had gone into the guest bedroom and removed her Sig from her bag and placed it in the roomy pocket of her skirt, under the boxy jacket. An experienced law enforcement official or a seasoned agent might be able to tell that she was carrying a weapon, but it was unlikely that any of these folks could. She’d stowed her purse in the closet and headed back into the kitchen.

She was at a loss for what she could do to get ready for the onslaught of people who were on their way to Sandy’s house. As she looked around helplessly, her thoughts went to the two men who’d shown up at the graveside service, dressed in clean, pressed slacks and shirts and yet looking out of place. Sandy had told her they were a local fisherman and his son, Murray and Patrick Cho. What bothered Maddy about them hadn’t been their looks or their clothes. It was their attitudes that had worried her.

They’d avoided eye contact, seeming uncomfortable and yet almost defiant, as if they were expecting someone to ask them to leave. The son, Patrick, had stared at Sandy a lot. Once or twice his father had whispered something in his ear and Patrick had reacted with a sharp retort.

Thinking about them made her think about the other man who’d shown up at the graveside service but hadn’t been at the funeral. The man with the sunglasses and the intense green eyes. She’d noticed him as soon as he’d taken his sunglasses off, while he was still standing next to his car. He was one of those people who command attention no matter where they go. He was tall, with dark hair and a lean runner’s body. Just the type of body Maddy preferred in a lover. At least in a fantasy lover. She’d never dated a man with a body like that.

She blinked and shook her head. What had made her drift off into la-la land? She was on assignment—her first assignment. She hadn’t anticipated that babysitting a pregnant widow and serving pounds of food would be part of the job, but she was a professional and she could handle anything that came her way.

Maddy glanced at her watch. Speaking of her job, maybe she had time to check in with her handler before all the people started arriving. She pulled out her phone. As she waited for Brock to answer, she spotted several stacks of red plastic cups someone had brought and left on the counter. She pulled one of the stacks toward her and twisted the tie that held the wrapper closed, but she couldn’t get a good grip on it with one hand, so she stuck the package under her arm to hold it steady.

“Maddy, hi. How’s it going?” Brock said. She knew very little about him, other than after military service he’d been in the CIA and had worked for an antiterrorist undercover agency for several years out in Wyoming after he retired from government service. She didn’t know how he’d gotten from Wyoming to Washington, DC, or how he, as a federal retiree, could be working as a handler for Homeland Security undercover agents, but she did know she could trust him with her life, and that was enough.

“Hi. The funeral’s over. That’s the good news. The bad news is I have to be hostess for the entire town while they eat all the food they brought to Sandy’s house.” While she talked, she grasped the cups’ packaging in both hands and tried to rip it, since she’d failed at getting the twist tie open.

“Right,” he said. “You grew up in New Orleans. You ought to know Southern traditions,” Brock said.

“I know them. I don’t necessarily like them.” With a frustrated grunt, Maddy ripped the plastic bag with her teeth. It tore straight down the middle and sent red cups rocketing across the kitchen island and onto the tile floor.

“Damn it,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“Oh, sorry, Brock. I was trying to open a bag of plastic cups and they just went sailing across the room.”

“Do you have a report?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, then took a breath. “Of course, I don’t know everyone in town by name, but I do know their faces. I saw four people at the funeral that I’d never seen before.” She bent over and snagged a small stack of cups that had landed right side up next to the refrigerator.

“Your assessment?”

“Sandy knew them. They were all members of the DuChaud family. She introduced me.” Maddy rubbed her face and neck with her free hand. Tristan DuChaud’s death hadn’t left her unaffected. Although he was working undercover for Homeland Security just as she was, she’d never met him prior to coming to Bonne Chance.

After Tristan had reported that his cover may have been compromised and requested backup and protection for his wife, she’d been sent to arrange a spot inspection of the oil rig the Pleiades Seagull and slip him a secure satellite phone. But when she’d approached the rig’s captain, he’d put her off, claiming a stomach virus outbreak making them too shorthanded.

While it left Maddy with her hands tied, it worked in Tristan’s favor, as he could stay on the rig and work as much overtime as he could get, thereby having more time to eavesdrop on transmissions between the captain and his superiors and verify their conversations against the chatter the Department of Homeland Security had picked up about planned terrorist activity in the Gulf of Mexico.

It had already been established that much of the chatter originated from the Pleiades Seagull. On a rare week home with Sandy, Tristan had talked to his handler, citing several specific matches between unidentified chatter and telephone conversations that took place between the captain and an unidentified satellite phone.

His reports had prompted sending Maddy. By the time Maddy got there, Tristan was working practically nonstop aboard the rig. Once it was obvious that the captain was not going to allow Maddy on board, Brock had given her the alternate assignment of bodyguarding Tristan’s wife, Sandy, cautioning her and Tristan not to let Sandy know that she was anything more than a new friend.

Maddy had been there nearly four weeks by the time Tristan finally got a week off. Between them, they’d convinced Sandy to let Maddy stay with her while he was working offshore. Tristan was happy because he wanted protection for his pregnant wife.

Maddy was not as happy. This was her first field mission and she wanted to be on the oil rig, in the middle of the action. She approached the captain a second time about a spot inspection. But again, he’d put her off.

Now Tristan was dead, and Maddy felt responsible. She blinked angrily at her stinging eyes. Stupid tears. She had always struggled with her weak side. The side of her that sniffled at funerals and weddings, and sometimes even Hallmark commercials.

“Maddy?” Brock said. “Continue.”

“Right,” she replied, blotting the dampness from her eyes with her fingertips, then grabbing for two cups that were slowly rolling toward the edge of the island. “There were fewer people at the graveside service. I saw three men who were not at the funeral. Two are Vietnamese fishermen, a man and his son, whom I had not seen before. Nor had I ever seen the third man.” She stopped.

The third man. Once again, his image rose before her inner vision. His runner’s body unfolding from the BMW. The sunglasses that he’d removed to reveal green eyes. According to Sandy, his name was Zach.

“Assessment?”

“Oh, right,” she said, pushing thoughts of Zach out of her mind. “As I said, two of them were local fishermen, according to Sandy. Their names are Murray and Patrick Cho. They were respectful and dressed appropriately but seemed uncomfortable and somewhat belligerent, as if they were expecting to be grilled about why they were there.”

“Did you get a photo of them or their vehicle? A license? Make? Model?”

“They didn’t have a vehicle, at least not at the grave site. They walked back to town. And the entire time they were there, they didn’t speak to anyone. They just stood and watched. A time or two they whispered to each other. Once, the younger one, the son, pointed at Sandy.”

“Okay. Text me their names. I’ll have them traced. What about the third man?”

“He was well-dressed and driving a BMW. I suspect it was a rental.”

“So we can get ID on him.”

“Absolutely. His name is Zachary Winter and apparently he’s an old friend of Sandy’s and Tristan’s.”

“Did you get a photo?”

Her hand tightened on the phone. “No. He was watching me the whole time. Sandy obviously cares a lot about him, but I don’t think he’s just a friend, though. He was too alert, too ready...”

“Ready for what?”

“Anything,” she said as her imagination pitted Zach against a burly gunman, whom he took down with his bare hands as a single drop of sweat slid from his hairline down his temple. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked. Brock had said something else but she hadn’t caught it.

“Text me his name and the license number of his vehicle.”

“I don’t have the tag. He parked too far away.” She saw a car pass the kitchen window, then pull over and stop. “Oh, hold on. Maybe I can get it right now. He just pulled up. I can see the tag out the window, if I can just read all the numbers.” She angled her head a bit so she could see the license and read it off to Brock.

“I’ll see what I can come up with. You get all you can from him and Sandy DuChaud.”

“Anything from your end? Are you going to be able to get another agent hired onto the rig?”

“It’s not looking good. We’re trying to see if we can go another way to find out what Tristan overheard and if it’s an immediate threat. We may pull you out, based on what we find.”

“Oh,” Maddy said as another car pulled up to the house. “I’d like to stay,” she said. “Sandy’s pregnant and alone here.” A third car pulled up. “Here they come.”

“Who?”

“Everyone in town. They’re all here to comfort Sandy and eat the food.”

“Stay alert.”

“No problem,” Maddy said, resting her hand on her pocket, where she’d concealed her Sig P229 handgun. “I’m always alert.”

“Usually,” Brock said wryly.

“What? What do you mean by that?” she retorted.

“I thought I was about to lose you twice in this conversation. First with the cups and then again when you described the stranger who is ready for anything.”

“Give me a break, Brock. I was just reporting what I saw.” She felt her face grow warm. “It’s been a long day.”

“Maddy, we don’t know yet what we’re dealing with. But you know that you have to assume that—”